An American Odyssey
by InEssenceDivided21
Summary: AU The war was brutal. It left no one untouched and Harry Potter is no exception. Drowning in the bottle, he hatches an elaborate plan to escape his demons and reinvent himself in America as a Muggle student athlete. Unfortunately, running away from demons is not that easy. Rated T for now.
1. Chapter 1- We All About Practice

**A/N this is an AU. The first 6 books all took place as is, however the events of book 7, the war, the subsequent aftermath etc. were much more extensive. Details will emerge as the story develops. This is my take on the classic "Harry goes to America" fic but it is not your standard version. It has dark and angsty parts, as well as more light and fresh parts, so don't say I didn't warn you. Overall it is more geared towards character development then massive AU plots. Also, my writing style will probably vary tremendously throughout. I like to experiment with different ways of getting the story to you guys. Feedback would be great and I hope you enjoy.**

 **Disclaimer: I do not own Harry Potter or any of the characters. Any original characters are mine and I would like for it to stay that way. Any resemblance to real life characters is unintentional.**

The batter swings viciously but to no avail. The pitcher has fooled him with a changeup and he has overextended. His wrists turn before the critical moment of contact and the result is a sharp grounder pulled down the line. The ball bounds down the smoothly groomed dirt of the infield; a hard shot to field cleanly. The young man manning the hot corner takes two quick steps to his right, smoothly backhands the grounder, turns and snaps off a strong throw to the first baseman. In the dugout, the coach grunts with approval. "Good job. Again". The players reset and repeat. Practice makes perfect.

A cry of "balls in" from the coach signals the end of the practice. The players gratefully troop into the air conditioned clubhouse. It can get rather hot in this rural part of New Mexico - slightly south of Albuquerque- in the summer months and this day is no exception. The players, really nothing more than a group of ambitious teenager's crowd around a chalkboard in a tight semicircle as the coach begins the post practice analysis speech.

"Moore", he says, addressing a husky kid adorned in the tools of ignorance, "good job behind the plate today. Maine," a quirk of the head indicates a tall wiry fellow standing by his side, "felt very comfortable with you today, nicely set targets and you were framing real good. I would just like to point out that you need to work on, as I've emphasized, really getting those knees down when blocking. It's essential. Today it worked out. But that's more because Kyle's a fastball guy. It ain't gonna be like that with everyone. Take someone like Marquez," he points to a stocky but athletic Hispanic boy, "his stuff will break you to pieces if you don't get that blocking technique down pat. You got me?" Moore nods.

"Good. Next... "In this vein the coach goes around the room giving his insight to each and every one of the boys.

He sounds tough, but it's all done with the encouraging tone of a teacher who genuinely wants to help his pupils. Sometimes he just points out something done correctly, the little things that make a big difference. With others constructive criticism is dealt, tough love, knowing that without a firm directing hand these boys will never grow to be men in the diamond. The coach has been doing this for years. This is the way to deal with a young college squad. Most of these kids haven't cracked their 20s, let alone be able to buy a drink, and a firm hand pushing them through the vicissitudes of life on the diamond and for those who need it, off the diamond as well, can be life-changing.

The young man who plays third base is slouching at the end of the dugout, a look of exhaustion apparent on his face. The boys have all left now, finished their showers and headed out. Some go to the dorms and others to the study hall. Only he is left and he has not made any indication that he's going anywhere, still clothed in his dirty uniform and wearing batting glove on his left hand.

Gingerly, the coach sits down on the banged up metal bleacher and contemplates the young man. It's not the first time that the kid, a slender kid topped with a mop of unruly black hair and trendy glasses has occupied his thoughts. Initially, the boy hadn't struck his attention. There was no imposing physical presence or loud personality in the locker room that would draw eyes to him. He seemed a fairly athletic plain boy.

The first time that the coach had noticed anything out of the ordinary was early on in the season. He had been in the clubhouse sorting ice packs for the pitchers to ice their arms with when he noticed the boy peeling off his batting gloves. A scar was revealed on his left hand. He could have sworn that it was in the shape of words, as if someone had tried to carve his hand like a piece of wood. It was unnerving and that had prompted him to keep a watchful eye on the boy. Having dealt with victims of abuse professionally for 35 years in Dallas before a well deserved retirement, he was no stranger to the morbid ways abusers prey on their victims.

Now, near the end of a long season together, he has yet to acquire much more insight into the boy. He is mysterious and enigmatic. A young man whom when playing looks no different than a regular teenage athlete, both on and off the field. On the field, he enjoys the game and off it he enjoys hanging out with teammates after wins. On other occasions however, it seems like a mask drops revealing the face of an ancient man, as if he has been shouldered with a burden too much even for one twice his age. Initially the coach had chalked it up to being the results of the adjustment to a new country and culture, the boy having emigrated from Europe the year before, but he recently has been giving that hypothesis a reassessment.

"It's that scar. That thing rubs me the wrong way", he mumbles to himself. "I think it's time I had a bit of a talk with him".

Carefully pulling himself up from the low metal bleachers, he heads towards the dugout ruing the old bones in his body. Right before he is in view of the dugout, he pauses and unconsciously readjusts his cap. He is second-guessing himself, unsure of how the kid will take this well meaning intrusion into private matters.

 _After all, it boils down to what's best for the kid; it doesn't matter if you're not behind the desk anymore_. With that thought bolstering the sense of the necessity behind the upcoming act, he starts forward.

He ambles down the steps casually, his shoes scuffing on the worn cement. The kid jerks, startled. His hand, seemingly by instinct, swings downwards towards his waist groping for something which is not there. Realization sets in and his body audibly relaxes.

"Oh, it's you", he says, his tone implying a sort of relief as if he was expecting someone else. "You startled me".

"Po-toer," he stumbles as he often does on the French sounding name. The nervous tension he has about the upcoming confrontation doesn't help any.

\- "It's pronounced Pateur. I've told you many times before, just call me Henri", the kid quickly cuts him off. He sounds slightly exasperated, the emotion compounded with his obvious lethargy thickening his unusual accent. It sounds English, but when pronouncing his last name there is a distinct French lilt to it.

"Whatever", the coach grunts in his distinctive drawl, "get dressed and come to my office, I want to talk to ya. Hustle." He doesn't like sounding tough, but sometimes when these teenagers get moody this is the only way to get through to them. If he was being inwardly honest, it makes it easier for him to affect the grumbly persona when he is nervous.

They settle down in the office, a small room not much bigger than a closet tacked on seemingly as an afterthought to the side of the ramshackle sports complex. It's organized precisely, everything in its proper place, as befits a man whose occupation had been, and to some degree still is, organizing people's minds. Henri sits down on an aluminum folding chair and stares into the coaches eyes.

"What am I here for" he asks calmly. "I haven't done anything wrong, have I?" He knows why he's here. _The coach's inquiring eyes haven't been invisible. Oh maybe he thought that his interest in me went unnoticed, but for the trained eye it was about as subtle as a dragon crashing through a bank window,_ he thinks wryly

The coach leans forward. His five o'clock shadow rims his chin. Henri is struck by the position he takes. Leaned forward with his fingers lined up in a steeple, it is eerily reminiscent of a former headmaster he once had.

He freezes. Thoughts come crashing through his head. Buried memories of the man he most respected are unearthed. His smile. _"Blubber, nitwit, oddment, and tweak," the headmaster says. A little boy turned to Percy, his newfound friend's older brother. "Is he mad," he asks. "Just a little," Percy responds with delight," he's the best."_ Henri's lips crack in a grim smile. His eyes are glazed over. The grief starts to kick in. A flood of emotions, of guilt for having survived when others haven't starts to weigh him down. A low cry emits from his mouth, barely a whisper. "I tried but I couldn't save you. You didn't let me."

The coach looks at him in alarm. Turmoil is written all over Henri's face. He's breathing heavily, hyperventilating. The coach jumps up and lays a comforting hand in his shoulder. Henri doesn't seem to acknowledge its existence. The coach looks at the boy and raises his hand.

SLAP. A resounding whack to Henri's face shakes him out of the self induced panic attack. He comes to and realizes what just happened. He curses under his breath. Embarrassment courses through his body as he realized what just went down and who he was in front of. The coach lets out a deep breath.

"Have you been in like a war or something?" the coach asks only half joking. He's unsure what answer he will hear. The kid definitely has some traumatic experience that left lasting effects. The full blown panic attack induced by what seems to be PTSD happening right in front of him seems rather indicative of it. _Abuse could have similar affects but that doesn't seem accurate._

Henri looks at him blankly. A defiant and unspoken 'what do you know' is conveyed from him to the man on the other side of the desk.

"Something has happened to you in your past." The coach states matter of factly. Henri barely twitches an eyelash at that. A subtle nod of his head gives the coach the acknowledgement to go on.

"I don't know what it is and honestly I don't know if I actually want to know what it is. I think you need to talk to someone you trust and let it out." He is looking Henri in the eyes this whole time and Henri is staring back at him steadily, unperturbed by this unsolicited psychological conversation.

"You know who I am and what I've done for many of you kids - referencing the counseling and help he has given out freely to his players over the years- and I think I know you to some degree. I am sure you have friends, but I don't think you have ever actually divulged the full extent to anyone. If you want to place some trust in me and talk, then I am perfectly willing to forgo the excellent food my wife has prepared for me and find a diner together."

"You don't know me in the slightest", Henri laughs. It's the laugh of a man who has stared death in the eye and knows that life can all end in an instant. The coach recognizes it. He has heard that very same laugh emitting from his own throat many years ago. The sound takes him back in a flashback of his own.

1969, for some, the year signified the apex of counterculture, the famous Woodstock festival, Beatle-Mania at its craziest. For others it was different. Life alteringly different. For those others, that most unforgettable of years was taking place in the humidity and steamy forests of Vietnam...

They told him that when the bloody mass of himself had been found they thought he was dead. The car wheels had still been spinning.

Colonel Emerson Phillips, a young boy just 20 years of age, had been selected to lead the convoy of supplies to a rendezvous with troops north of base. The going is slow and rough. The air is muggy with not a breath of wind to provide respite. Emerson is driving carefully and joking around with his companion, 21 year old, Steve Hawkins. A regular fun loving kid from Iowa. They had hit it off from the first day of basic trading and the bonds of war had drawn them closer as it does with so many.

A quick and furious confluence of events, Emerson was still not sure of the order of them to this very day, occurred. The Jeep swerved to avoid a natural obstruction in the rough trail, and an AK47 barked, bullets spraying all around and quickly blowing out the windshield. Steve yelling at Emerson to stay down and to radio the convoy not to follow. Emerson staying down while Steve provides cover. The phrase pounds through his head, dizzy with the sudden burst of adrenaline his body releases. **Mayday... Four Charlie...convoy DNF... Repeat Do Not Follow. Send air cover... Mayday...** Over and over again. He loses track of how many times he speaks out those words. Above him Steve is doing a valiant job defending the Jeep from the guerilla fighters. They fight with desperation, with no regard for safety whatsoever. They would as soon drop out of a tree, knives gripped between their teeth and AK47 firing away on full auto as Steve would plug them with his M16. But it couldn't go on like this forever. They had little cover and if a bullet would strike the engine they would be roasted in an inferno. Emerson yells at Steve.

"I'm going forward" and he slams the gas. The engine catches, shudders then goes. The battered Jeep jerks forward and starts driving blindly into the forest. The Vietnamese, smelling a retreat, following in hot pursuit. The Jeep is thrashings around, barely controllable as it maneuvers through the thickly wooded Vietnamese forest.

"There", Emerson jabs excitedly with his finger. It seems to be a miracle, in the distance lays a US army station. Steve is concerned that it might be a setup, while Emerson is hearing none of that. _Providence_ , he thinks as he slams the gas yet again, urging a few more RPM from the beleaguered machine. They rumble onto smoother ground. Steve smells something; his eyes widen open as he yells

"Turn around its a- the rest of his words cannot be made out in the noise of the explosion. The resulting fireball is massive. A thermite incendiary explosive device combined with the remaining gas in the engine can do that. Emerson would have been dead very quickly if he had not been thrown clear at the moment of detonation. The forest had been a trap. Small innocuous paths direct unsuspecting victims towards what appeared to be a US army base, but in reality was no more than strategically placed pieces of wood tarp and broken equipment.

He had woken up laughing. A laugh that is only laughed by men who had seen the power of death. One who has had a beloved comrades life casually snuffed out right in front of his eyes. It was this laugh that he has just heard emanate from the mouth of one Henri Patuer and it makes him both concerned and intensely curious about the mysterious personality sitting across from him.

"But what the heck, I'll go with you." Henri says, his voice jerking the coach back into the present. "I'm just warning you. You asked for it, and I'm going to mince no words." _I can't really tell him everything because of the statute, but if I tell him enough he probably will back off and give me space._

They walk silently to the car, a solidly built pickup. Before putting the key in the ignition, the coach turns to Henri.

"Forgive me for being so forward, but can I take a look at your left hand?" Henri says nothing, just reaches out his hand and puts it into the coach's soft wrinkled hand. Piercing eyes trace out the words harshly carved in the pale skin. **"I must not tell lies"** , it reads in a thick scrawl. _The scar is a pale white, it didn't happen recently otherwise it would still have redness It must have been when he was a kid. What type of foul individual would such a despicable act?_ The question clearly prompts a visceral reaction from the coach because Henri answers the unasked question racing through the old coach's mind.

"Don't worry about it," he says calmly, "she's never going to see the light of dawn again. You see, I killed her myself"

 **A/N The next few chapters are going to go back through Harry, or rather Henri's backstory, so expect a more narration/perspective style. It's something I've been trying to work on. Updates will unfortunately be on an inconsistent basis because I have a very busy schedule with camp and college.**


	2. Chapter 2- A Black Whitewash

**A/N I hope you enjoyed chapter one and are interested in understanding the exact backstory behind the war. Clearly its very different then what was in the books. This chapter goes back to the beginning of the story and things will slowly become clear. Please R &R! Same disclaimer from last chapter applies.**

Hermione's phone buzzes. She ignored it, assuming it to be another inane WhatsApp post or Facebook notification. It has been a long day in Uni and quite frankly she is more interested in going to bed and getting some much needed sleep than getting sucked in to the addictive flow of social media.

After a long relaxing shower, she checks her phone for the last time before retiring to bed. _Peculiar. Three missed calls from an unknown number. Oh, there's a text as well._ With a tap on the fingerprint sensor- she still is in awe about the advancements Muggle technology has made in the past ten years- she unlocks her phone and checks the text.

 **Pls call me**

 **Ur only haircut client :)**

Hermione's heart jumps. _It can't be. Or could it?_ Hardly daring to believe it, she thumbs at the unknown number. She doesn't recognize the area code. A familiar voice picks up on the other end.

"Hello," Hermione's heart jumps. _It's really him!_ Her response tumbles out of her mouth; a jumble of words all trying to get ahead of the other like cars at a racetrack. Question after question rolls out of her mouth.

"How are you? Where have you been? How did you get my number?"' - he interrupts her abruptly.

-"I would love to talk but I would prefer it to be in person. Is that all right?" She furrows her brow. _Is his voice slurred a little?_

"Okay". She can't help but feel excited. Harry has disappeared off the face of the earth for nearly a year now and she misses him. He had been the rock of the trio in many of the grim situations that had found themselves in the war,and she wouldn't say it, but there were times that she felt like his presence would have significantly helped here in her adjustment to 'normality'.

"The dwelling place of Harry James Potter can be found at 1263 Fairview Lane," Harry recites in a monotone.

 _No wonder he couldn't be found, he used a Fidelius!_ _Where even is that?_

"You know Wales at all?" he asks rhetorically in response to her unsaid question.

 _He has always been able to read my mind like that. It's actually kind of unnerving._

"Mione, it's fine, since you're Unplottable and likewise with me, the Ministry can't track Portkeys in or out of our houses. Just make one."

"But that's illegal!" she exclaims. He responds dryly.

"I didn't see you bothering about that in Gringotts. Look, do you want to see me or not? This is the only way. Oh and don't bother asking how I know you're Unplottable. I have my ways. "

 _And there he goes again with the mind reading thing. Did he learn how to do legilimency through the phone or something?_

"I'm looking forward. See you tomorrow". CLICK.

 _ **Portus**_ _._ A faint blue glow envelopes the enchanted trinket and with a pull at her navel she is off to Wales.

She hits the ground with a rough thump. As she steadies herself she instinctively goes into a well rehearsed routine. Land, crouch, check your six, corners. All clear. All this is done instinctively with an ease of motion that indicates routine burnt in to muscle memory. She catches herself. _The war is over. There's no need for all of that._ A voice in her head, like a bears growl roars in her head. _CONSTANT VIGILANCE!_

Approaching the simple three flat, indistinguishable from any other in this standard urban neighborhood, she looks around cautiously. Everything seems normal. Hermione doesn't like normal. Normality makes you comfortable, lowering your guard so you don't see the unexpected coming.

As she approaches 1263, a tension is felt in the air. There is a distinctive albeit subtle electric feel in the air, as if the air is more densely ionized in this particular area then others. She stretches her hand out. She closes her eyes and concentrates. _There_. A slight buzz is apparent, a tingle that envelopes her fingers. Wards. _So, he did learn something from me._ A thin smile appears on her face part pride but tempered by a thought. _Why does he feel all this is necessary?_

The wards are distinctly Harry. Instant heavy duty brute force wards will catch you off guard with their strength. The sheer force of the initial confrontation causes you to disregard the subtle creepings of the secondary thrust. It's highly effective technique that he mastered and used to great efficiency in their time on the run. The tingle goes away and the wards soften in recognition of her magical signature. _Why thank you._ She is pleased. Harry has keyed her in to the wards.

As she pushes open the door to the flat, the unmistakable stench of alcohol hits her nostrils. _Eugh._ She wrinkles her nose distastefully. _We all had our various ways of coping after the War, but did he really need to dive into the bottle?_

"Harry?" No response aside for the echo of her own voice. She leaves the coat room and goes into the living room. It's in the typical state of chaos that you would expect in a flat belonging to a single guy. Ignoring that, she slowly approaches his bedroom door and tentatively knocks. A groan cracks the air. _Slightly awkward for me to be entering a single guy's bedroom but he might need my help. And besides, it's Harry. It's different._

The room is a mess. Empty bottles of alcohol litter the floor and Harry Potter is sprawled out on the floor lying in a pile of vomit. Hermione flips out.

"I need to get away from all of this." Harry states matter of factly.

"What have you been doing all this time?" Hermione replies in an investigative tone. "I mean besides from drinking yourself into oblivion. That I saw very clearly. Harry winces at that.

"That hurts."

"It ought to." She snaps back at him. Harry pulls out his phone, a late model smartphone, thumbs at the screen for a brief moment, and turns it around to face Hermione.

"Read". She does.

 _This is some impressive planning. It has its issues but fundamentally it could work._

 _Is this really how he felt about the fame? The public has held us up to be heroes, the perfect role models for the next generation. He is right in that if the public knew half of what we did, not only would we be vilified but the magical version of the Hague- the ICW- would have us locked up for war crimes. The hypocrisy is just too much for him. He is a sensitive soul deep down. Most don't see that part of him._

"America?" she asks aloud. An affirmative grunt is her only reply. She rolls her eyes. _Men._ She continues reading the document, her eyes moving so rapidly that if given wings, they could take off. He has written a plan that will radically alter his life. An escape from the craziness of England is clearly his main goal. _It is impossible for Harry to become normal in the magical world. It wasn't when we were mere students and certainly not now after he has been anointed the savior of the magical world. Adding in the fact that everywhere he, and honestly the same is true for me, walks in magical England is just another reminder of the atrocities that were committed, and I genuinely don't blame him for wanting to get out of it as fast as possible._

"Harry, I'll help you do this. It seems to me that either this plan, a crazy half cocked scheme, will allow you to escape, or the bottle will forcibly make you escape. I don't want that second option. Therefore," she says in a business like tone. "I will help you with this harebrained alcohol induced scheme of yours and shape it into a reasonable plan of action. I demand from you only one thing."

"What?"

"You want me to help you; I need you to help me. I will not stand for you, Harry James Potter, wasting himself in the bottle! You are far too good a man for that. You quit, I will help. Agreed?"

A firm handshake devolves into a hug as two friends reunite.

Weeks later

Harry and Hermione are seated in her cubicle in her office pouring over papers. It's after hours and no one is around besides for the janitorial staff. Despite the emptiness, the area in which they occupy is bristling with Anti-eavesdropping jinxes and protective charms.

"Okay, so we have some details that need to be taken care of. Firstly, your documentation: You will be unable to go anywhere without proper documents. I managed to locate your birth certificate from the Muggle hospital that St. Mungos is affiliated with; however that is the extent of your documentation. Your official schooling ended at the age of 11 so that is a problem as well."

"What's there to do about it? If I want to get into a school across the pond like you suggested, than we're going to need graduation papers, right? Hogwarts doesn't have some transferable credit system for muggleborns?

"There is, but you didn't graduate from them and if you want to arrange a credit transfer McG is going to get suspicious."

"I don't think I've ever heard you call her that before."

"I lost a lot of respect for her in the last year. You know that when I did that 2 month internship in St Mungos, I was treating scores of Hogwarts students for PPCS!?"

"Um…"

"Phantom Post Cruciatus Syndrome." She smoothly launches into her teacher voice. Harry hides a smile behind his hand. "When nerves in the body have been exposed to prolonged Cruciatus use without a long respite in between exposures, the nerves don't fully recover. Think of it in terms of a workout. When you work out muscles, what you are actually doing is tearing your muscles. The tissue that grows back is what makes the muscles stronger and bigger. Imagine someone works out and before the muscles recovered, the guy went and tore them again. After a few times doing that there would be severe damage to the muscles. Nerves are no different. Damaged nerves do a lot more than just ache; these poor kids feel phantom cruciatus pains. Granted they aren't as severe as the real thing but nonetheless that is not something I would wish on most of my enemies." _Although there a few…_

"Great lecture Professor- Hermione blushes- but what did that have to do with McGonagall?"

"These kids were subjected to usage levels of the curse that would have leveled fully grown adults, and it was all on her watch! You do realize that the curse was invented as a last resort means to stop stampede in yaks in the Himalayas?!

"So this all happened under her watch and she should have done something about it. Look, cut her some slack, if she wasn't there than things would have been much worse. Let's get back on track here. Thanks for taking initiative and looking for my documents but I wasn't planning in going as Harry Potter. Or were you thinking that I would?

"Kind of, yeah." She purses her lips.

"Well I'm not going to. I've thought about this and I don't think it'll work. They know who I am across the pond also. I was the only reason Voldemort didn't go to America. He was so focused on eliminating me that he never attempted to expand globally the way Grindlewald did. They know that. Going to the states under my name would be like painting a target on my back for everyone, especially the MaCUSA people. Incognito is the way for me. I'm done with all the pointing and staring!"

"So what you are telling me, Harry James Potter, is that you want to falsify papers to illegal immigrate to the states?"

"Exactly".

"But that's illegal!"

"And you stole a dragon. Look, I've broken nearly every law magical Britain has to offer, why should Muggle ones be any different?"

"How are we to do this? I'm sure there is a way to acquire Muggle copies quite easily but those will probably get you caught. There's also a Social Security card, Passport, Birth Certificate, school records, Insurance- oh my gosh, we're going to have to do like a whole new past for you!"

"Calm down." Harry's deep smooth voice washes over her. "No need to get overwhelmed. It's not as hard as you think to get your hands on them. That's the beauty of magic and the bane of Magical Law Enforcement. There is a whole black market for magical criminals who deal with the muggle underworld. I was just reading about it. "

"You were 'just reading' about something? Yeah, I don't really believe that. Where did you find information about that?"

"Whatever, it's not a legal publication. The wizarding version of the Arsonists' Cookbook. Don't ask and I won't answer. "

"So you're telling me that I should ask George about it?" They both break out into laughs. _It's a good sign that we can still laugh. It shows we haven't been broken._

"Does this guide help you with actually creating the falsified documents?"

"No, it just says that the creation process is quite complex, far more than you'd think and on order to acquire them, you'd need to connect with the local dealer to broker a connection with the higher ups for you. As you can expect it's quite the hush hush type of deal. So, how good are your connections to the criminal underworld?" A light chuckle.

"Not so good. As the "Guardians of the Light- that's what the paper said about us the other week- we would get into a whole scandal if this got out. Who would dream that we would be in need of some criminal help ourselves? "

"Yeah it's bloody ironic. Point being that-"

"-Dung!"

"After last time?"

"Just threaten him or something masculine like that."

"Is the 'straight as an arrow' Hermione Granger advocating for blackmail?"

"At times black methods are needed to cause a whitewash."

Questioning look.

"I did, just now. It sounds very profound."

"Cut out the giggling. Criminals don't giggle."

"You're laughing too, don't deny it. Sounding defensive doesn't flatter you. How are we going to find Dung? Kreacher worked last time."

"Not going to work, I don't own him anymore."

Raised eyebrow

"Teddy."

Nod.

"So... You have any ideas? "

"I think I'm going to give George a call. Tell him I need Dung to get some stuff for some brainy experiment of mine. He'll get such a kick out of the "Golden Gryffindor" needing illegal stuff that he won't ask too deeply. I'll just have to make sure it's stuff that he doesn't have. It's not like he's on the straight and narrow himself. "

"I've got some ideas of my own. Get back to me if you get any developments."

CRACK. Apparition.

 _That boy is crazy and will probably be the end of me._ Hermione thinks. _We better not get caught. You know, that would be an interesting quandary for the Ministry if we were to get caught. Will they cover over for us or throw is to the wolves. I don't want to find out._

 _So why are you doing this?_ She asks herself.

 _Because he really needs it. And as much as I will miss him it truly is the right thing for him._

Hermione reaches for the Floo powder

"Weasley Wizarding Wheeze's back room" the fire turns purple. _A warded Floo, when did he install that?_ She sticks her wand hand into the cold flames. An ice feeling washes over her as the wards identify her as a friend or foe. Satisfied, the fire turns into a pale reddish orange. Limited access, calling only. _Well I'll be..._

"Sorry about that, Hermione," a jovial voice says. "It's a new security feature. What's up?"

"I need to talk to you about something. Can I come through?" George waves his wand in an elaborate pattern, mumbles something under his breath and the Floo turns the standard green. Hermione smirks. _Same George as always. He's bounced back well. I'll say something to Angelina. She'll appreciate it._

"You do realize that I know the whole wand waving is unnecessary, right?" George gives her a large smile.

"Yeah but it scares off everyone else who doesn't possess your level of intelligence. So I'm gonna keep on doing it."

The back room in WWW is crammed with half finished prototypes. A peculiar looking teddy bear broomstick combination that emits puffs of colored smoke at odd intervals catches her eye, and that is far from the weirdest thing in the room. George clears off the table, picking up spare bits of parchment and other various things: a large sneakoscope, a few potions vials, a very large monkey wrench that flashes a range of psychedelic colors, and a few other Weasley-esque sinister looking materials. After room has been cleared sufficiently they sit down.

George rubs his hands together excitedly and asks her why she has decided to grace him with her presence.

"Unless it was purely to sit in proximity to my gorgeous face?" he suggests.

"Not quite. I need a favor from you." she responds seriously. George leans forward.

"Now what could the "Moral backbone of the Golden Trio" possibly need from little old me? It couldn't possibly be something on the left side of the law?" his eyes are twinkling with mirth. 'I'll have you know that WWW is a fully legal business and all the ingredients in our edibles are approved by the International Potioneers Association of the Commonwealth for ingestion."

"I need to find Dung."

"That's it?" George sounds disappointed. "I was meeting with him before you came. When you Floo'd me I told him to go outside and have a smoke. He's probably still out there right now. Go outside and talk to him."

…So please leave a message after the tone. Thank You.

"Hey Potter, this is Fletcher calling. I hear you need some papers. I can work that out for you. I know a guy. It's gonna cost you a pretty penny though. Call me back or if you're as good with Muggle tech as your girl says, than just text me. Use Cryptogram if you can. **"**

 **This is HP. Give me details.- HP**

 **You need identity change, rite? easiest to fake is French. its better b/c you don need to fake American. How's ur French accent?- Dung**

 **It's fine. I got no problem with that.-HP**

 **Granger told me you wanna go 2 scool. How are you getting in? It'll be tough to work out a reg transfer.**

 **Sounds like you've done this for someone before ;) Haven't really considered the how. First trying to work on the bare bones first.**

 **Yeah I got you. Ive gotten papers through these guys b4. During the war its I got my family off the island. These people are the best but you can't screw around with them.- Dung**

 **Whatever is necessary.- HP**


End file.
